


71 days

by FreyaLor



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-26
Updated: 2017-09-26
Packaged: 2019-01-05 21:03:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12197379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreyaLor/pseuds/FreyaLor
Summary: Richelieu may be the one to hold France steady, but who keeps the Red Man sane?With Treville gone to war, Armand slowly stops functioning.





	1. Descent

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  
I am reading this report for the third time now, and I still don't remember a word.  
This is ridiculous. I have no time to waste.  
   
  
My fingertips keep drumming an angry tune against the desk. I grip my cup of herbs to silence them.  
  
I sigh, my brow aching from frowning too much, and look around my study.  A dark, moonless autumn night came to dance behind my windows hours ago, bringing along a nasty chill. My armchair, my books. Nothing changed, and yet.  
  
That treaty is taking me too long to write. My thoughts scatter like sand in a storm, no matter how hard I clench my fists around them. I growl, stand up, circle around my library, pick up a book I don’t even think I need and sit back down, biting my lips.  
  
This is ridiculous. When Joseph left last week, our intentions about the treaty were clear.  Sweden would come out richer, a few of our trusted men placed in well-chosen spots along the diplomatic ladder, and France would be blessed with time enough to build a sufficient army to crush the Habsburgs back into place.  
  
This is all absurdly simple, _why does it take so long?_  
  
  
I flinch at the low, buzzing pain rising behind my eyes, recognizing the footsteps of another headache long before I can feel it. I hiss a spiteful curse, looking up at the Holy Cross above the mantelpiece, _oh really, do I deserve this one?_  
  
My fingers are dreadfully cold, as they slowly rub my temple to delay the inevitable. I’ll call for more tea. I am yet again not likely to sleep much.  
  
  
The formal robes my servants have prepared for tomorrow, this priceless cloak of silk brocade, my coat of arms above my desk, nothing changed, and yet.  
  
  
  
It all seems just a little more pointless, that’s all.  
  
  
It’s been thirty-two days.  
_Jean won't come tonight._  
  
  
  
  
\---   
  
  
  
I let out a hissing string of profanities before I even realize it. Darting up a mildly embarrassed look at the Holy Cross on the wall, I sign myself with a wince.  
  
Four mistakes in a row, what have I become? This waste of time is a disgrace.  
  
I can't just strike out words like lesser men. My documents have always been flawless, and I intend to keep them so. Everything I produce ends up like everyone in Court.  
Satisfy my standards, or burn.  
  
I grab the paper sheet, tear it to shreds and throw it in the fire.  
  
  
My back and neck shudder in protest as I get up. I gather my nightgown around my shoulders, and walk to the windows with a snarl of pure rage. The rain hasn't stopped since noon yesterday, and the gardens seem tired of being force-fed all this water. I'm shivering, and if I don't do something about those circles around my eyes, they will say I am sick again.  
  
Ha. They'll all be too _delighted._  
  
  
They all hate me after all. The Red Man, the plague of this nation, squeezing France dry.  
Dark, soiled Richelieu, devouring the whole country in his greed for power.  
  
  
Well, better hate me than the King.  
Better be hated than mocked.  
  
  
There is no time to search for the reflection of his blue cloak in my high windows anymore.  There is no time to hold my breath again, hoping I'd hear his boots in the corridor.  
  
I know I should stop, _why can't I stop?_  
  
  
Spinning around, growling, my eyes meet that Cross again, _oh, don't look at me like that._  
_I never promised I'd be a saint. Who made me a priest in the first place?_  
My head hurts. But still. Rubbing my eyes, I walk back to my desk, swiftly pulling out a new sheet of paper, what else is my time made for anyways?  
  
  
It’s been forty-nine days.  
_Jean won't come tonight._  
  
  
  
  
–--  
  
  
  
I dismiss Charpentier with a disdainful bark. He looks at me with that pained, hurt face again, but I only spin around, sweeping away the thought of him with a wave of my hand. As he takes too much time to step back into the corridor, I even shout at him over my shoulder.  
  
Something venomous.  
Something unnecessary.  
  
  
  
The Cross is watching, I know. I narrow my eyes at it, defying. My headache explodes, sending sparks of raw agony through my skull.  
  
I look down in defeat.  
  
  
I limp towards my desk, letting myself fall into my chair, giving the world some time to stop spinning before I grab my quill. I suppose I forgot a few meals again.  
  
No matter.  
  
  
The Council is on Tuesday. I cannot fail. They’d be too happy.  
  
They all hate me. I see their eyes upon my back, I know what they think, I know what they say.  Richelieu, the necessary evil, Richelieu, the corrupted soul.  
They all fear me. I know those shifty glances, I noticed them all. I’ve read their pamphlets, I’ve read them all. Richelieu, the King’s own King. Richelieu, the puppet master.  
  
  
_Well, better hate me than the King._  
_Better be feared than mocked._  
  
  
Did I say that out loud?  
  
  
_Oh, God, how tired I am._  
  
  
  
  
Lowlifes and courtesans. None of them knows, none of them cares. It is I who makes their country safe, who will make their Kingdom great. I will make you rich and peaceful, you ungrateful creatures, if only my head could hurt a little less.  
  
If I could stop hoping for the sound of his boots upon the floor.  
  
I exhale, open my books, start writing. A tear fall upon my hand, and I let out a sigh of relief, because it didn’t ruin any ink. The world has blurred, but I won’t stop.  
What else could be the point of me anyways?  
  
It’s been fifty-seven days.  
_Jean won’t come tonight._  
  
  
\---------  
  
  
  
  
  
  
My hands are shaking. I may try to grip that book tighter, but there's no point. I am trembling like a dying man, and I had to give up writing two hours ago.  
  
  
Something is blurring my eyes, and if I don't do something about that pain, I'll have to give up reading too. I lean over the side of my armchair, stare down at the floor where an intolerable mess of papers and books is reigning. I let my tea run cold again.  
  
I swear out loud. Look up at the Cross. Growl a bitter sound.  
  
  
What time is it now? Are we Tuesday? Is it dawn coming up behind the high beeches, _oh Lord, dawn already?_  
  
  
I get up in a start, but my legs refuse me, and I fall on my knees with a miserable moan that can't seriously be mine, one of my hands still gripping my desk.  
  
What's that silver plate doing on the ground, oh God, is this my face, is this what I look like by now?  
  
I have a panicked glance for my formal robes, the definite version of the treaty, the maps, the accounts, nothing changed, and yet. Something is crushing my chest, something is stealing my air. I can't breathe.  
  
_I can't breathe._  
  
I won't make it. They'll say I'm sick, they'll say I'm dying, and they'll smile, I know they will.  
  
They’ll be too delighted.  
They all hate me, they all fear me.  
They want me dead.  
  
_They want me dead._

  
  
  
God, I won't make it, I will fail him.  
He'll let go of me, then, he’ll cease to protect me, I know he will, why wouldn’t he?  
He’ll let me go, they’ll have me killed, they’ll have me stabbed, they’ll lock me up, cut off my head, throw my body to the pigs, like they did for Concini.  
  
_They’ll play games with my torn skin._  
  
  
  
God I can't breathe, when have I gone so pale?  
  
Was I always so thin?  
  
  
Saltwater is soaking my eyes, and if I don't do something about that pain, I'll start to spit out blood on those papers.

 

  
  
I need to get up, I know I should. Read that treaty again, check it for mistakes. I can’t fail. I can never fail. I should stand, I should stand.  But I only let go of my desk and let myself slide further down.  
I hear my teacup shattering as my body hits the floor.  
  
What's the point, I won't make it.

 

  
  
Something is shaking my stomach, and I only realize I am sobbing when a report on wheat taxes is drenched in tears below my head. Someone is laughing, madly, sadly, and who else might it be than the ghost of who I once was?

  
  
No one knows, no one cares.  
They all hate me after all.  
  
  
It’s been seventy days.  
_Jean won't come tonight._

 

 

  
  
  
–-

 

 

  
  
  
I watch, dull and distant, as the King gently lays down his quill and hands me back the signed treaty.  
   
I am almost surprised to find strength to lift my hand and take it, bowing slightly, clenching my jaw around the spinning in my head. I carefully slide the paper back in its case, and turn around towards the Council, blinking once or twice top chase exhaustion away.  
Strange, I don’t quite remember how I got dressed, but somehow it appears I did. I dart a wary look at the main doors, almost expecting to see the litter that carried me there, but as there is none, I suppose I walked in. How can I stand, I was dying. My cheeks feel sticky, did I cry again?  
Louis is praising something, or someone. I have to watch the faces of the Council and see them crumble into bitterness to understand it’s me. I turn back to him with a short smile, bow again, and as the King notices I need support from a high chair to keep standing up, he frowns and opens his mouth to ask something, oh, not that again.  
 

  
I prepare a convincing sentence about my health, but I give up halfway as the doors bang open for three messengers, their boots and cloaks still soaked with rain and road mud.  
   
-“ **Brissac is taken, Your Majesty** !” One of them shouts, bowing low and easy. “The troops are on their way back as we speak. They’ll be in Paris tonight.”  
Brissac.

 

  
Oh God, Brissac.

 

  
   
Louis claps his hands a few times, and small cries of joy echo through the council. I don’t move, my body and mind refusing to express anything, too busy keeping me standing up and looking almost fine.  
-“Casualties?” Louis suddenly asks the messenger, his hands suspended mid-air.  
   
I lift a blank stare up to the Holy Cross above the hearth, _do I need to say that prayer again? You heard it just fine._  
_Every night._  
  
_Every seventy of them._  
  
   
I stare at the Cross and wait, as I will wait when my time will come, for God's judgement upon the worth of my desires, the weight of my reasons.  
   
-“Colonel François duc de Corbin, Lieutenant de la Varenne and the Marquis de Perrière.” The man counts, eyes low. “Along with two hundred and thirty of our soldiers.”  
   
He didn’t say it.  
He didn’t name him.  
   
Something in me roars, something in me _burns._  
  
   
The King drops his hands. He liked De la Varenne very much. In my head, the war machine that never goes off quietly whispers that De Corbin was the last friend of the Medici in the Army’s high command, and that I already have a list for possible replacements among my partisans and debtors to be laid down under the King’s eyes once the suitable mourning time is over.

  
Now, I should speak about how blessed the dead are by giving their life for their King. I should praise the courage of the living. I should bow softly and congratulate Louis, I should stare right at Belmont’s flushed face across the table, and have him avert his gaze in defeat, because he dared to tell me Brissac was a lost cause.

  
Now I should talk, I should move around a bit. They all expect me to react, to be heard, to be seen. To be honest, they’re right, I always do.  
   
But all I can say, all I can utter, is that small dull question, with eyes that can’t even seem to focus on anything else than that golden Cross above our heads.

   
-“Who is leading the troops into Paris?”  
   
-“It is Captain du Peyrer Treville, Your Eminence.” The soldier claims. “He is the highest officer left alive, and has been most admirable during the battle.”  
   
Something in me explodes, something in me _exults._  
  
I feel myself swaying, and I must grip the edge of the table to straighten my back. I close my eyes for a second, take the time to breathe twice, and look up at the Cross with a knowing smile.  
I really thought you were mad at me, you know.

  
   
  
While all Counselors speak in pride and bliss of one more victory for France, Louis only looks at me, nodding his satisfaction when our eyes meet. We designed the battle for Brissac together, four months ago, and though we both unleashed Hell at each other in the process, we know we agreed upon the best strategy. I almost hear the glorious trumpets, but it’s only my heart beating. I witness, disbelieving, strength coming back into my veins, as sunlight creeps up a hill at dawn.  
  
I watch, dull and distant, as color slowly crawls back upon the white skin of my hands.

 

  
   
It’s been one seventy-one days.

  
**_Jean is coming back._**

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Ascent

  
  
Truly, my wasting time has never reached such heights. My fingertips do shuffle through my collection of theology essays, picking up some, opening a few, but all of this makes no sense, has no aim. I do start to read one, I do turn those pages, but nothing useful will come out of this and I know it.  
  
I disgracefully slaughtered almost three hours that way, but it doesn’t matter.  
I’ll be at peace soon enough.  
  
_Jean will come tonight._  
  
  
I watched him approach through the main gates of the Louvres, standing next to Louis in the pouring rain. Though four servants were holding a wide canopy steady enough above our heads, the wind still threw ice-cold water at my face. I felt my hair sticking to my cheeks in disarray, my cloak got heavier by the minute, I was drenched, and I was cold, but God, how little did I care.  
  
I watched him ride alone to the first steps of the palace, covered in mud, blood and grime, his face abused by sleepless nights, his lips dry from shouting too much.  
  
I watched him dismount and patiently wait for the other officers to join him, as he rode more than a hundred yards ahead of them. I watched him bow for the King with pride and devotion, and at last, dear God at last, I watched his eyes searching for mine.  
  
Though he barely nodded at me, his jaw tight, his fists clenched, his raw hunger burned in my chest. I felt, one by one, his seventy days of war, spent in the same wait, the same want. They punched me in the guts, and I had to stare at the skies, because I was almost panting.  
  
  
The report to the King took ages. I stood still, twenty inches from him, gripping the rim of my coat so tight my joints ached. Louis kept asking questions, wanting every single move of the battle explained, and I had Charpentier take notes, because this will be no doubt the subject of my next four councils.  
  
Treville complied, leaning over a map of Brissac he asked to be brought, pointing hills and roads, ramparts and high towers. Weak, foolish me, I focused on a detail of his hand, because any wider look at him could shake me out of my own breath.  
  
Through gripping hands and averted eyes, our gazes still met twice.  
  
The first time, I caught him gauging me for illness, his piercing stare counting shudders along my spine, noticing the white cheeks, the red eyes, and seeing everything, because he always knew where to look. I tried to frown his concern away, but with a quick snarl he made it quite clear he was having none of this.  
  
I looked down and bit my lips.  
  
The second time, I was gently listing for Louis the names of the prisoners he should show no mercy to, praying for leniency towards the rest. I whispered that if Brissac had been misled into rebellion, it was still French lands, and though the King should not tolerate betrayal, he could show to the world he is not so reckless as to take his own people’s blood.  
The list of heads to be cut off must have been shorter than Treville expected, because at the end of it, his bright stare shot up at me with a fierce glint of relief. I smiled briefly, and the glint turned to that raging hunger again. He eyed me up and down, lingering around my waist, and a quick tongue darted out upon his lips. My skin burned, screaming for him so loud I almost whimpered.  
  
He looked down and his breath hitched.  
  
  
  
  
We didn't dare to even turn towards each other until the end of the supper the King ordered to be prepared in the honor of the surviving Officers. I kept my eyes fixed upon safe places, like my own hands, and somewhere beyond the high windows of the dining room. I smiled, from time to time, I spoke when spoken to. I counted time, muttered prayers.  
  
I actually liked the music Louis asked for this night, but it did nothing to appease the howling of my skin. Time stretched like a lazy cat. Every second was a torture. I thought I could start to cry at the mere sound of his voice.  
  
It was late already when the King allowed him to go back to the Garrison and rest, but as he paid his respects to Louis I swear I saw his eyes, aflame, sweeping over the lower folds of my robes. I knew, by then.  
  
  
As sure as I know, now.  
  
  
_Jean will come tonight._  
  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
My fiddling through my books has barely begun to look absurd when I hear a gentle clicking sound.  
The panel of the discrete door to my apartments opens and closes on his footsteps, but I won't turn around. Not right now. Because the sight of his cloak reflected in my windows is enough to have me dizzy and bewildered, I fear I'd die if I look at his face.  
  
I won't turn around, not now.  
I lay down the book I was holding with careful, sluggish moves, and wait.  
  
  
Five heartbeats, no more.  
  
  
-” _Armand_.”  
  
  
I close my eyes, breathe in, breathe out. When I open them again, I have a glance for the Holy Cross, _oh, do you have any idea what I'd do for my name in that man's voice. The castles I'd build, the ships I'd send South._  
  
But He knows. Of course He knows. He's heard that prayer already.  
  
  
I turn around.  
  
  
And here he stands fast, solid as an ancient tree, his eyes alive with victory and pride, his jaw clenched upon all the nightmares they drag behind them. Here he stands tall, his broad shadow crawling upon me under candlelight.  
  
I straighten my back, lift my chin up and smile, because I want to make up for those dark lines of exhaustion around my eyes. He stares in awe for a while, licks his lips again, and I swear I'd have a symphony composed for him.  
  
He opens his cloak, then, revealing his hands, and I frown in silence at the heavy heap of fabric he holds out to me. He lets out a small chuckle, something deep and throaty, something only he can make.  
  
Suddenly, he throws the fabric at my feet with a wide gesture of his arm, and it unfolds in a low hiss, falling around me like a defeated snake of thick brocade.  
  
It takes me a few seconds to understand, and when I do, I step back with a gasp, oh, God.  
  
  
Circled around my robes, lies the tattered, burnt banner of the Dukes of Brissac. 

 

 

  
  
I look up into his clear blue eyes, gathering my words, my shaking hands clutched around each other upon my hammering heart.  
  
-”Why didn't you give it to the King?” I breathe.  
  
-”Because that's not the name I had on my lips as I tore it down from the dungeon roof.”  
  
  
I inhale, shuddering, a bit dizzy, maybe. Instinctively, my eyelids get heavier, and I offer the imperial stance I use on conquered ground. Something wild sparks in his eyes, hazed need blurring his pupils and then, gently, his stare never leaving mine he bows, whispering in a soft snicker:  
  
-”You know I am forever at your command. _Eminence_.”

  
  
His last word burns into me, ignites my skin, awakens my bones, and I feel my worry, my sorrow, my rage turn into  a force I cannot understand.  Before I think about it I step upon the torn banner, grab his collar and push him backwards. Only when his back bangs against my bookshelf I realize how harsh I am being.   
  
He gasps, his fierce eyes opened wide, watching me from head to feet. I press myself flush against him, my heart leaping at how perfectly his body and mine fit together. His broad and sturdy frame humble me. His clear and eager eyes redeem me.  
He looks like he could speak my name, but _no, my dear_ , my mouth on his crushes its first sound.  
  
He moans, loud, desperate, parting his lips, craving for more. His spine itself seems to turn liquid, and I smile as I feel his knees buckle.  
  
His hands dart up to my hair, gripping as he so often does, but I hiss a sharp denial, pulling apart and stepping back, leaving him panting against the wall. Chin up, eyes veiled, hands joined, I just stand there, marveling at how his whole body instinctively surges forward to fill the gap between our skins. He stumbles towards me. I step back some more.  He growls. I chuckle.  
  
After a while, he understands I am guiding him towards my bedroom, and his frustrated frown eases away. He grins.  
  
He has no idea how he shouldn't.  
  
When he has closed my room's door, he rushes to me, his famished hands searching for my skin again, but I slap them away with a soft clicking of my tongue, and this time his eyes find mine, already hurt, somewhat confused.  
  
-”Armand?” He tries.  
  
  
Chin up, hands joined.  
Straight back, poised voice.  
  
  
-”Undress.” I snap.  
  
  
He blinks once, twice. His lips part, close. There are dozens of questions in his bright, honest eyes, and if truth be told, I don't think I understand much of what is happening neither. I just keep my head high and my bearing victorious, towering above him, ruling him, commanding, and he has no one but himself to blame, he laid down their banner at my feet after all.  
  
He bowed that way.  
  
He spoke that way.  
  
  
  
  
His tongue passes briefly upon his lips again, as he always does when he's worried. I keep my gaze soft, but my mouth remains firm. He mutters something under his breath, rolls his eyes a little, and shrugs his coat off. I have to bite the inside of my cheek, or he would notice my smile.  
  
He obeys, flustered, botching his moves, tearing fabric. He may not notice my smile, but he must see how my hands shake and grip as I cross my arms, because quickly enough he's almost naked,  fresh wounds marring his rugged skin absolutely everywhere.  
  
Of course, of course, what did I expect.  
_Seventy-one days of war._  
  
  
  
My resolve duels against urge to open my arms wide and wrap his abused body into red silk.  And yet, I only nod. Haughty, distant, _insufferable._  
  
  
Because of the trust our lives are built upon, because of the bravery fueling his moves, he pulls out his breeches with nonchalant ease, and makes one step forward, his heavy stare boring into mine. He's steady, he's strong, he's magnificent.  
__  
_He's rock-hard._  
  
  
I feel dizzy.  
  
  
  
I let him approach, carefully humming my assent when he moves to unbutton my robes. I uncross my arms, grazing his shoulders with my fingertips, drinking his shivers as I would drink wine, vaguely remembering I didn't even offer him any.  He doesn't seem to mind. He's obviously thirsty for something else. I let his rough hands grab the skin of my hips and pull me against him. I let his mouth devour my neck, I even give him a soft moan as our groins meet in violence.  
  
When he tries to push the opened robes off my shoulders, though, I shake my head.   
  
  
  
His eyes dart up to mine, and he grunts an exasperated sound. It only slides upon my skin. I snap my fingers and point at the bed. He hisses my name, spits something about losing patience, and he's right, he could very well lift me up with one arm and throw me down upon those sheets if he wanted to.  
  
Except that he won't.  
  
He is captain Treville, the highest surviving officer of the battle for Brissac. He is stormy, untamed, raw and panting, and if he lets himself be played like a harp tonight, it is because he decided so. He declared, by throwing that fabric on the floor, that he had a master. He claimed, as he bowed, that he wanted to yield.  
  
_And yield he will._  
  
  
  
He moves to grab my wrist and pull me to the bed, but I forbid it with one look. He groans, his hand flying up to his mouth where he almost bites it in irritation. He doesn't beg. He will.  
  
I lean over him, grabbing the sides of my robes and flapping them open to cover us both. He whimpers, clutching a handful of silk with wild defiance, obviously aroused just by the rustling sound it makes . Those cumbersome yards of fabric drive him mad every time, and the smile I shouldn't bear broadens against my will.  
  
As he watches me creeping closer, he naturally tries to push my legs apart so I straddle him, but then again, I grab his thighs and spread them wide, lying down upon him in one swift move. He wheezes my name, looking up at me with shock and disbelief. I bite the soft skin below his ear. He cries out. He doesn't beg.  
  
_He will._  
  
  
  
  
I know where and I know when to lick or kiss, it's been years, to be honest. I know, in spite of the scars and the gashes, his sides are still as sensitive as those of a youngster. I know he can scream with a mere scratch of nails along his inner thighs, but the deadliest weapon I use is the stern, sovereign look I give him. He searches my eyes for a breach to slide in, finding none. He watches my face for signs of any will to submit, finding none.  
  
He frantically chases any trace of the usual me, finding none.  
He frowns, he struggles, but I only use the power he gave me. I only look down at him from the altar he put me upon.  He doesn't even know this is exactly what he wants.  
  
Well. He will.  
  
  
I snap my fingers again, gesturing towards the nightstand, and he doesn't need further clue. It's been years, after all. He pulls the drawer open, with his eyes still hooked on mine, and hands me the oil with a careful twitch of a smile.  
  
It is only by kindness that I kiss him roughly as a distraction, thrusting two slick fingers in, swallowing his yelp of shocked pain. I don't release his mouth until I found that spot inside, and when I do, he is already shaking. He is tight, almost unwilling, and I see him fight the urge to use his strength against me clear as daylight. Chin up, eyes veiled, I crook my fingers and move, I know dexterity has always been my advantage. Soon enough he throws his head backwards, arching up, whimpering. Soon enough his bright blue eyes blur, darkening fast, and his cock twitches so hard I'd be wise not to touch it yet.  
  
I add a third, a bit harshly perhaps, and his hands shoot up to cup my face. He growls at me, fool that he is, he doesn't even know that's exactly what he wants.  
  
-”Behave.” I breathe into is ear, and his growl dies pathetically. 

 

  
I move my hand deeper, and I feel his fingers tensing in my hair. I give him a few minutes of gentle, slow thrusts, keeping the rhythm merciful. He gazes at me as I've seen some men gaze at angry skies, fearing the storm, searching for God. It is getting harder to keep my eyes distant, but he doesn't need to know. 

  
After a while his knees fall apart some more, his hips shudder, and he's starting to welcome me.  
He speaks then, his speech cut in bits, his breath short and gasping. He says I am beautiful, he says he'd fight for my name a hundred years. “Make me yours” he asks. He doesn't beg.  
  
He will. 

 

  
The robes crumple and the bed creaks. I pull my fingers out, grab his hips and thrust myself in with a confidence I may not feel, and an expertise I may not have. He doesn't seem to mind, he cries out, and though his hands in my hair could break me like a twig, they only stroke distractedly. I don't think I am that good, but the few moans I can't help but let out seem to do the trick. His eyes roll back, his hips buck up wildly, and I never thought he'd be so _loud_. 

 

  
He screams, my knight, my fighter, he screams my name. He's out of breath, almost panicked, terrified by how much he needed this. There is sweat upon his temples, and I realize his wounds must hurt. Too late, far too late to care. I angle myself, slow down, cry out into the curve of his neck, and his words fall apart, delirious. I don't understand them all, as they're crushed by his rhythmic cries, but he does manage to open his eyes, find mine and exhale “ _My Eminence_ ”.

 

  
I whimper, my mind blanked by raw pleasure for a while, and I thrust hard and deep. My hands crawl from his hips to his cheeks, I kiss him messily, and I offer one last cold, superior smile as I let out :  
  
-”My loyal and brave.”

  
That is what shatters him.  
He almost wails, grabbing my hand and forcing it down on his cock. I refuse him, just a few seconds, and without regret, without restraint, he begs for release.  
  
God, he _begs_ me. 

 

It feels like taming a battlefield.

_He feels like reigning over war._

 

I wrap my fingers around him and grant him what he needs, because I'm just as about to break as he is, but he doesn't need to know. He comes with a painful shudder, eyes squeezed shut, calling me, spasming hard. I follow in a heartbeat, crumbling upon him, amazed that I've managed this far.  
  
  
  
  
  
A long time later, as I lay at his side, shivering and dazed, I realize I can't stand up anymore, not even to clean ourselves, and though stunned into a dreamy silence, he's still the one to do it. He throws away the wet cloth he used, and slumps back into bed. He seems to listen to his body for a while, ans if he learned something new today, and well, maybe he did.  
  
Long minutes pass by, while he just stares at the red canopy above my bed, before he quietly turns to me, his left hand coming to pick up my own, inspecting my fingertips. He gauges my face then, narrowing his eyes at the harsh lines of my brow, the dry skin of my lips. He watches exhaustion taking back my body with dreadful force, ending the miracle of strenght his return gave me, and very nonchalantly asks :  
  
-”How far did it go this time?”  
  
There is no point in lying. I can barely move, my hands twitching miserably under his peaceful scrutiny.  
  
-”It took me two months to write a treaty,” I wince;  “and two Court physicians swore I'd be dead within the week.”

  
He sighs, rolling his eyes to the skies of red velvet, and shakes his head at my insanity.  
  
  
-”What if I don't come back, one day?” He breathes.  
  
  
-”Well, it seems France would better pray I do die within the week.”  


 

I see the warmth on his face freeze into anguish as he no doubt weights the burden of being the one to keep me sane, and I open my mouth to apologise. But after a while he chooses to keep quiet, and simply throws the covers upon the both of us. 

 

 

 

__  
  


 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historically, the burden of keeping Richelieu sane was mostly upon Père Joseph's shoulders, along with La Combalet or his trusted secretary Charpentier. They calmed his fits of anxiety, they soothed him as he spiraled up or down, they called out his bullshit if necessary. I don't think he would have achieved so much without them. 
> 
>  
> 
> I wanted to explore what would happen if Treville had to bear this role all by himself. If he had to hold the Red Storm steady every day, fighting the madness to keep the genius functioning. 
> 
> The smut is extra. I promised dominant! Armand. You know how generous I am. 
> 
>  
> 
> This may not be my best work, but my adorable betareader says it's still worth posting. Well. Who am I to argue.


End file.
